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The Trouble with Sin
Devilish Vignettes (#2)
Victoria Vane
The Trouble with Sin
Copyright ©2013 Victoria Vane
Edited By Tara Chevrestt
Cover Art by Polina Ipatova
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's
imagination, or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.
To John, Sean, and Brandonthree men who fill my life with love and laughter.
Contents
Chapter One ....................................................................................................................... 8
Chapter Two ..................................................................................................................... 16
Chapter Three .................................................................................................................. 28
Chapter Four ................................................................................................................... 33
Chapter Five .................................................................................................................... 41
Epilogue ............................................................................................................................ 56
Sneak Peek: Jewel of the East (#5) ................................................................................... 58
The Devil DeVere Series ................................................................................................. 61
Excerpt: A Wild Night's Bride (#1) ................................................................................. 61
Excerpt: The Virgin Huntress (#2)................................................................................. 63
Excerpt: The Devil You Know (#3) ................................................................................. 65
Excerpt: The Devil's Match (#4) ..................................................................................... 67
Excerpt: A Devil's Touch (4.5) ........................................................................................ 71
Other Historical Romances by Victoria Vane ............................................................. 72
Victoria's Titillating Tidbits ............................................................................................ 74
Works Cited ...................................................................................................................... 75
About Victoria Vane ....................................................................................................... 77
But when the morning comes at last,
And we must part, our passions cold,
You'll think of some new feather, scarf
To buy with my small piece of gold;
- A Fleeting Passion by William Henry Davies
Chapter One
A private abode on Wigmore Street, City of Westminster – 1764
Simon's bored gaze drifted over the library—his favorite room in the house—lingering on
a shelf teeming with his beloved volumes of verse.
"For nigh on twenty years, we have done our best for you with only modest expectations
in return. Have we not provided you with every advantage? And this is how you would repay
us?"
His father's fist slammed on the desk, rattling ink pots, drawing Simon's attention to the
bottles. He wondered idly if they would spill.
Lord Singleton continued his rant, "By pulling foolish and irresponsible pranks? By
getting tossed out of school?"
Simon inhaled. "I'm not expelled, only rusticated for the term."
"There's bloody little difference in my book, my boy!" He threw his hands in the air.
"Worse, you and your fellow malefactors have enraged the king!"
"That was simply an error of happenstance."
"Happenstance?" Lord Singleton glowered. "How the devil can absconding with a lion be
happenstance?"
"It was supposed to have been a bear," Simon clarified with a fleeting smile.
"Bloody hell!" Baron Singleton raged on. "The species makes no difference! You stole
the king's property! Have you no shame, Simon?"
Knowing there was nothing he say to appease his father, Simon fixed his gaze in perverse
fascination on Lord Singleton's quivering jowls.
"Well!" Lord Singleton demanded. "What have you to say for yourself?"
Simon's need to compose a contrite platitude was, thankfully, forestalled by three sharp
raps on the library door. Pausing on the threshold, Lady Singleton's gaze wavered between her
husband and son, and then back to Simon with obvious maternal concern. She had always doted
on her youngest child. He wondered if she had purposely interrupted to save him further
browbeating.
"Have you quite finished, my dear?" she asked her husband.
"Not by half!" Lord Singleton barked. "He has been spoiled and coddled his entire life
and now would run wild! This ungovernable behavior shall cease and desist this very day!"
Simon kept his gaze impassive and fixed on his father's waistcoat buttons. He marveled at
the strength of the buttons, wondering if a great sneeze would make them pop.
"But, my dear," said Lady Singleton, "you know this is all due to the unholy influence of
that…that…that… irredeemable devil DeVere!"
"On that, my dear, we are in total accord," the baron replied. "Bad blood runs in the
DeVeres. Morally corrupt, all of them." Lord Singleton's lips thinned and his gaze focused once
more on his son. "Henceforth, you are to have no further association with that reprobate."
"But he and Ned are my oldest friends—" Simon protested.
"And a poor choice indeed! A man is often judged by the company he keeps."
"And not just judged by man," Lady Singleton added. "Know ye not that the unrighteous
shall not inherit the kingdom of God? You must study the Proverbs, Simon, lest you be damned
by your association with such Godless persons."
"If that is so, Mama," Simon replied softly, "how would the sinners ever come to know
Grace? Did our own Lord not keep company with tax collectors and known prostitutes?"
Lady Singleton closed her mouth with an almost audible snap.
Baron Singleton glared at his son. He then prompted his wife, "Did you need me,
Albinia?"
"I do indeed. I came to remind you the Reverend William Dodd will be addressing the
Magdalen Society today. You have not forgotten, I hope?" Simon's mother was an avid supporter
of the charity who hoped to cleanse the city of prostitution. "Lord and Lady Hertford will also be
in attendance. The marquess has committed to soliciting the patronage of Queen Charlotte to
expand the Magdalen House."
Lord Singleton pulled out his timepiece and examined it with a frown. He then rose from
his desk tugging at his snug waistcoat. "I'm late for an appointment at my club." It was the stock
excuse for avoiding his wife's society meetings. Simon marveled at his father's lack of
imagination. "Let Simon sit in my stead. Association with such persons can only benefit his
character."
"What a wonderful idea!" Lady Singleton exclaimed. "You must meet the Reverend
Dodd, Simon. He is such an eloquent young man and so well versed in the scriptures."
Bloody hell! Simon groaned. He was consigned to perdition indeed—ceaseless hours in
the company of religious fanatics and hypocrites.
"But, Mama," he protested. "I had planned to occupy myself with meditation of the
Psalms this afternoon."
"Is that so?" Lord Singleton cast Simon a dubious look.
Simon offered his mother a beatific smile. "Yes. After much soul searching, I feel a
calling to join the clergy."
"The calling? The clergy?" Lady Singleton repeated. "But you have said nothing about
joining the church." She looked to her husband. "Is this really true?"
Lord Singleton grunted. "'Tis the bloody first I've heard of it!"
"I was just about to tell you when Mama rapped upon the door," Simon smoothly
prevaricated. "I've seen the error of my ways and am determined to return to the straight and
narrow path."
"Simon! My dear, dear boy!" Lady Singleton's eyes glistened. "I cannot tell you how this
warms my heart! It is my fondest dream come true!"
His mother's dream became Simon's nightmare when he was summoned to the drawing
room two hours later. Bored out of his mind, Simon drummed his fingers on his thigh, stifled
yawns, and fought the urge to roll his eyes while the Reverend Dodd droned on about the evils of
carnal temptation.
"Can there be any greater object of compassion than poor, young, thoughtless females
plunged into ruin? Artfully ensnared by those with superior faculties, education, and fortune,
what defense can an innocent maid have against such formidable fiends and seducers of virtue?"
Lady Singleton plied a handkerchief to her eyes with a sniff. "Such scoundrels!"
Dodd continued, "How can young maids living in want protect themselves against
profuse promises of passion, luxury, liberty, and gaiety? Alas! Lost to virtue, they become lost to
themselves. Akin to a cut blossom they wither until cast away by the very rogues who prey upon
them." The reverend paused for effect and shook his head.
"Poor wretches!" Lady Singleton choked out and then blew her nose.
"But there is hope, madam. Through the efforts of this worthy society, hundreds of
penitents have already forsaken their lives of sin. Now through the honest employments of
spinning, knitting, and lace-making, these miserable young women have a means to recover their
character."
Simon knew many girls who had given up lives of such domestic drudgery in favor of
making a living on their backs. None, to his knowledge, suffered the least regret or repentance
about it. Nor did they seem overly concerned about their loss of character. Indeed, he had
always felt a particular affinity for their joyfully unabashed practice of iniquity.
His thoughts wandered to the ragged gypsy lass whom DeVere had taken under his
protection. Surely she was happier in her present circumstances than in her prior life earning
three shillings a week in the stench and squalor of the Royal Menagerie. According to Dodd,
DeVere was the vilest of rogues for ruining the girl, but Simon doubted very much that Freddie
would agree.
Nevertheless, Simon sipped tepid tea, smiled, and nodded, responding with trite and
proper remarks, wishing he was anywhere else but this purgatory of prigs.
***
Later into the evening Simon received an unexpected missive from DeVere, or perhaps it
was better described as a summons. He wondered what had brought his friend back to town so
soon when he'd expected to spend several months in Kent. There was only one way to find out,
and happily, that option required escape from his prison.
With the servants reporting his every move, Simon perceived the window as the only way
out. Raising the sash, he cast a wary look at the earth below before throwing caution to the winds
and one leg over the sill. But when his second leg followed, he found himself suspended twenty
feet above ground, grappling for a foothold.
When his slick leather-soled shoes proved ineffectual, he kicked them off in hope that his
stockinged feet would allow better purchase. Simon then reached for the drain pipe, wishing he'd
also thought to remove his bulky frock coat. He began his decent down the drain, but his silk
stockings were even more slippery against the pipe than his shoes had been against the
stonework. He managed to shimmy and slide ten feet closer to earth before falling into the yew
hedge.
With a muffled groan and an abundance of curses, Simon wrestled out of the greenery,
fumbling in the increasing darkness to locate his shoes. He then hailed a sedan chair to convey
him to Charing Cross.
***
"What took you so damned long, Sin?" DeVere demanded. "I sent the message to your
house hours ago."
Simon signaled the drawer and flung himself onto a bench. "You think it was easy to
escape my parents' watchful eye? I can hardly take a piss without permission. I had to sneak out
through the damned first-story window. Thank God the hedge broke my fall."
DeVere threw back his head with a laugh. "That explains why you look as if you were
dragged through one backwards!"
Simon gave a shake of his lace cuffs. "I'm happy to be the source of your amusement," he
replied, tight-lipped. His scowl disappeared, however, upon the arrival of a buxom tavern wench
with two fresh tankards. She smiled and leaned over Simon, gifting him with an intimate view of
her charms. Simon made an appropriate show of appreciation.
"Where is Ned?" DeVere asked.
"Already gone home to Yorkshire," Simon replied. Done with his slow perusal of her
breasts, he cupped the barmaid's arse.
"None 'o that!" She slapped his hand away but it was all just a part of the game.
"Later, my dove? Simon flashed a raffish grin. "I'll make it worth your while."
"So they all say," the wench answered with a saucy smile.
Simon transfixed on the sassy sway of her hips as she parted. He then answered DeVere
as if they'd never been interrupted. "As it turns out, Ned would have had to request leave from
Westminster anyway. His father has taken ill."
"Is it serious?"
"A heart seizure. Ned got word of it right after you departed for Kent. He was quite
shaken by the news."
"He would be, model son that he is. Puts the rest of us blighters to shame."
Simon chuckled. "Speak for yourself, old man. I am my mother's pride and joy, bound for
the clergy as I am."
DeVere sputtered his ale. "You? A man of the cloth?"
"What better way to employ my pen than in sermon writing?"
"Between composing lewd verses, you mean?"
Simon shrugged. "All work and no play makes Simon a dull boy."
"But the church, Sin? Come now!"
Simon took a long drink. "If you must know, it seemed the easiest path back into my
parents' good graces."
Although Simon's parents were narrow-minded and puritanical, he never doubted their
affection, unlike DeVere who was born into wealth, privilege, and complete parental apathy. His
parents notoriously despised each other and flaunted their infidelities. Worse yet, his father was
rumored to be half mad from the pox.
"How was Kent?" Simon asked. "As bad as you expected?"
"Far worse. I must now face the penance of exile."
"Exile?" What do you mean?"
DeVere smirked. "I am forced to go abroad and suffer all the decadent and lascivious
pleasures the Continent has to offer. Come with me, Sin! This scandal is a blessing in disguise.
Just think of it! Months to do as we damned please."
"Impossible." Simon shook his head. "Do you think my father is going to allow me to go
off on the Grand Tour after this ruckus we created?”
"But that's just it. A few months away and all will be forgotten. Besides, it won't cost him
a farthing. I'll foot the entire bill—or better said—the Viscount DeVere shall."
"You know I can't." Simon sighed. "In fact, he has expressly forbidden me any further
contact with you—believes you're a bad influence on my character."
DeVere grinned. "Then he would be right."
"How long will you be gone?" Simon asked.
"Six months. Mayhap a year. Longer if I can manage. Which now reminds me of why I
sent for you. There are some things I need you to look after for me." He withdrew a key from his
pocket along with a card with an address written on the back. "The key is to the rooms I have let
in St. James. You must go there at your earliest convenience."
Chapter Two
It was two days before Simon could break away again. This time his escape was in the
light of day, ostensibly to borrow a book of sermons from Reverend Dodd.
With access to DeVere's apartments that included a bed, Simon ventured through St.
James the park, hoping to encounter a certain dairy maid. He hadn't laid eyes on the toothsome
Lavinia since he'd composed the bawdy verse in her honor—the poem that had incited the chain
of events leading to his current disgrace. Arriving at the grazing meadows just above St. James,
he was dismayed that Lavinia was nowhere in sight.
"Cuppa milk, young sir?" asked a bent old crone holding a haltered cow.
"No milk, madam," he replied. "But perhaps you could tell me the whereabouts of a lass
named Lavinia?"
She extended a gnarled hand with an expectant look. Simon dug two pennies from his
pocket and handed them over. Her gaze narrowed. "Milk for tuppence. Questions are
thruppence."
Simon retrieved the third coin from his pocket with a resigned sigh.
The crone took it and cackled with toothless triumph. "Lavinia, eh? More like lazy,
lackadaisical light skirt, not fit fer an honest day's work. Don't think ye be the first randy young
gent to come sniffing about her skirts. Nor will ye be the last."
Simon's hackles rose. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"She done took up with that rogue from the Shakespear's Head. I says good riddance to
the baggage." She spat.
"The rogue from the Shakespear's Head? Do you mean Jack Harris?"
"Aye. The pimp general hisself come recruitin'. Lost half a dozen milk maids in a day.
May God save 'em all from the pox." She gave a bony shrug and turned away to tend her cow.
Simon trudged away. Damn! It wasn't bad enough that DeVere had left for the Continent,
and Ned was rusticated to Yorkshire. Now Livy had gone to the Shakespear's Head?
He'd sought out Livy with the fancy that a good tupping could lift him out of his
doldrums. He'd even secreted in his pocket the Ode to a Milk Maid of St. James in hope that his
poetic composition would counterweigh his lack of coin and ease his way under her skirts. Now
that she'd entered the world of fleshpots, he'd never be able to afford the pleasure of her
company— or any pleasure at all!
Lost in melancholy, Simon hoofed it across the park to DeVere's lodgings. He entered the
chamber startled to find the remnants of a meal sitting upon the table, and various articles of
clothing littering the floor. How Strange. DeVere had been gone for days. Did the house employ
slatternly chambermaids? Or did someone else occupy the room? Had the avaricious landlord let
it out to another in DeVere's absence?
Before he could puzzle it any further, a lump stirred in the bed and then sat up. Simon
gaped. "Freddie?"
"Simon?" she returned. The gypsy girl's look of tousled, sleep-drugged petulance sent a
surge of blood to Simon's groin. Damn, how he wished he'd been the one to tousle her. A frown
marred her brow. "My lord said you'd come and look after me. What took you so long?"
"I-I had no idea," Simon stammered. "I thought you were some musty papers."
Her frown deepened to a scowl.
"Bugger it! Th-that's not what I meant! It's just that he never told me it was you I was to
look after." When given the key, Simon hadn't taken into account DeVere's devilish sense of
mischief.
She pouted and plucked at the counterpane. "I don't see why he couldn't have taken me
with him." She gazed back up at Simon with misty eyes and quivering lips. "He's cast me off,
hasn't he?"
Not tears. He could bear anything but a female in tears!
"Please, Freddie. You must understand how he is. I have never known DeVere to form
any lingering romantic attachment. It just isn't his way. Did he not explain the arrangement to
you?"
"The only arrangement was that I warmed his bed in exchange for this." She gestured to
the rooms. "Now he's hied off to foreign parts." Her expression transformed from woeful to
sullen in the blink of an eye. "Does he expect me to just pine away until his return?"
"I doubt that very much," Simon replied. "DeVere is not one for pining of any sort. He
would expect you to enjoy yourself in his absence."
"Enjoy myself? How am I supposed to do that stuck alone in this place?" She gave an
indignant sniff.
Simon turned up his hands with a sigh. "I don't know, Freddie. How were you used to
entertaining yourself before?"
"Entertainment is all we ever did when I lived amongst the Romanis. We traveled the
country from north to south, performing at all the fairs, but now they have long moved on, and I
am here. Alone."
"Do you wish to rejoin them?"
"No," she said. "I like London."
"Then you wish to stay here?"
"Where else am I to go?" she huffed.
Simon raked a hand through his hair. Why were females so bloody complicated? A good
meal and a tumble would suffice for any man, but obviously this situation required some finesse.
He'd get nowhere near her bed, let alone into it, with her feathers in a ruffle as they were.
"If you are bored, I'll be happy to take you out and about. Do you wish to attend the
playhouse?" He supposed he could sneak her into his parents' box. They rarely attended. His
mother disapproved of the illicit tone of the theatre. "Whatever your pleasure, Freddie, I place
myself at your disposal." He gave her a gallant bow.
"The playhouse? How can I go to the playhouse without any clothes?"
"Clothes? There are clothes everywhere." He gestured to the garments that littered the
floor.
"Hardly the kind for a lady." Freddie rose from the bed with a snort. "He thought it a lark
to keep me as a lad when we went about. The rest of the time, he said I had no need of 'em."
She kicked violently at the breeches and shirts on the floor. Garbed only in DeVere's
nightshirt, the act provided Simon with a gratuitous view of slim and shapely legs.
Simon cursed DeVere in a surge of envy. Why had he been the one to discover Freddie?
He was the luckiest blighter and thoroughly undeserving to boot. "Yes, I suppose DeVere would
see it that way. Did he leave you any coin?"
"Are you daft? Do you s'pose I'd be stuck here in these rooms had milord left me any
coin?"
Great. Just bloody great. DeVere had reaped all the benefits and now left Simon to deal
with the upshot. But deal with it he would.
"DeVere does not lack generosity, Freddie," he explained in his most placating tone. "No
doubt, it simply didn't occur to him because he had so much on his mind before his departure."
"Then what's to become of me?" The misty eyes returned. She blinked, and the first tears
spilled from her black eyes to roll down her cheeks. It was nearly Simon's undoing.
"Come now, Freddie! Please don't weep." He went to her and clasped her hands. "He's
hardly abandoned you. He let this lodging for you after all and asked me to look after you—
albeit in a somewhat vague and circuitous fashion."
"Then you will be my protector?"
"Protector? Hell, I don't know! I've never kept a mistress before."
"Then you don't want me?" Freddie sniffed.
"Bloody hell! It's not that, Freddie!" The problem wasn't a lack of desire to keep her, but
the means to do so. His pockets were empty and he had no means to rectify the situation. He also
wasn't certain that DeVere had meant for him to poach on his preserves. Then again, the key had
seemed like a gift of sorts.
"I don't believe you." Freddie's lips quivered. "Just like him, you are going to leave and
never come back."
"No!" Simon protested. "I promise I'll return."
"You swear it?" She slanted a coy look through her dewy lashes.
He crossed his heart. "Gentleman's honor."
Her tears abruptly ceased. She snaked one arm around his neck while her other hand
toyed with the buttons of his waistcoat. She was warm, soft, and smelled like woman. God, how
he loved the scent of a woman, either delicately perfumed, or wearing the heady aroma of her
natural essence; it didn't matter to Simon. He shifted in uncomfortable awareness of the
tightening in his groin.
"Then you'll keep me? As a real mistress?"
She darted her pink tongue over her full lips, an action that sent another rush of blood
into his throbbing manhood. Bugger! All she had to do was look at him to incite a cockstand.
"Yes!" He groaned. "I will keep you." The words of promise escaped before he could
muzzle himself. It was his bloody prick speaking, and it had taken full control, mastering at once
his mind and his mouth!
A subtle smile now supplanted her pout. "Then I will need some new clothes."
He blinked in incomprehension, the blood that normally fed his brain having been
diverted to other places. "Why do you need clothes in bed?"
She shoved him so hard his arse hit the floor. "Do you think me a simpleton? I've see the
high-flyers strutting about Covent Garden all in finery. I won't be your mistress unless you treat
me like one—starting with some proper lady's clothes."
She came to stand directly over him now, arms crossed, a position that tightened the linen
over her pert breasts and clearly defined the shape of her nipples. From his vantage point on the
floor, his gaze traveled up her shapely legs to the shadowy apex of her thighs. The throbbing in
his balls ascended to his head, further muddling his brain. Her gaze dipped to the tented falls of
his breeches.
"I'll get you a gown," he blurted. "Anything you need, whatever you desire, I shall lay it
at your feet." Why had he made her such an impossible promise?
"Anything?" She lowered herself to her knees and then straddled his lap.
The heat of her core was only inches away, beckoning to his straining cock, and blurring
his vision. She brought his hands to her breasts. They were soft and warm and oh so delightful.
His balls ached for want of her—so much he thought he would burst. He hadn't the vaguest
notion what a gown would cost, but damn if he wouldn't cut off his left arm this very moment for
one.
"If you can make it a silk gown, I would be most grateful."
"Silk, Freddie?"
She nodded mutely. Her hands drifted southward. He sucked in a breath, and his eyes
fluttered shut. He moaned as her little hand wrapped around him, firm and confident. She gave a
small squeeze, and his eyes rolled back in his head. It was too much! He would explode if he
didn't have her now! He thought he would even commit murder to be inside her.
"Simon," she whispered hotly against his mouth.
"Yes, Freddie. Anything you desire. I am your servant."
The moment the words left his mouth she leaped off his lap with a chuckle.
"Damn it, Freddie! What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" She snatched up a waistcoat and a pair of breeches and
proceeded to dress.
He shook his muddled head. "But I thought you…we…"
She cocked a brow. Her lips curved into a seductress' smile. "Yellow, Simon."
"Yellow?" he repeated.
"It's my favorite color."
***
Simon left her with a raging cockstand and in a near frenzy to locate a yellow silk gown!
Aside from his mother, none of the females of his acquaintance had ever worn silk, although he'd
never taken much notice of their clothing at all…other than the removal of it. He wondered if his
mother favored yellow, but then shook off the notion. He was certain she never wore anything
but drab colors.
He then thought of Lavinia. As one of Harris' new recruits, she'd surely have acquired a
new wardrobe. Perhaps she could assist him. But even with her help how would he pay for it?
Instead of heading home, Simon made a detour for Covent Garden, determined to drown
his misery in a tankard…or three. Reaching the square, he made a beeline for the Shakespear's
Head, where he sidled up to the familiar bar and ordered a stout. Draining it in a few great gulps,
he promptly called for another.
"I say, sir," he addressed the imposing tapster, "might you be acquainted with a lass
named Lavinia, late of St. James dairy?"
"I be not the whoremaster here," he replied, slamming a second frothy tankard on the
counter. "If ye seek a wench, see Harris."
Realizing he would get nothing helpful from the barkeep, Simon drained his second
tankard and then reached into his pocket…to find only a crinkled piece of foolscap.
Damn! He'd given the last of his coins to the old crone! Now he hadn't even two bits to
pay his reckoning! Simon looked sheepishly to the tapster. "Er…I don't suppose you'd accept this
by way of payment?"
"What's this?" The brute sneered. "Sommat to wipe my arse with?"
Suddenly Simon found himself suspended by his cravat. Bloody hell! This was not good.
Grumbling a curse, the burly barkeep signaled someone on the far side of the room. "Got
a freeloader, Mr. Harris. Says he wants to pay with this!" The tapster shoved the crumpled poem
across the bar to the establishment's manager.
"I'm no freeloader," Simon choked out. "I simply forgot my purse."
Harris' brows furrowed. "Do I know you, sir?"
"Singleton. Simon Singleton. I'm a friend of DeVere."
"Ah! I recall you now." Harris nodded to the barkeep, "Release him, Samson.'Tis surely a
simple mistake as the gentleman says."
Simon dropped like a stone. He sucked in a gasp of air and massaged his tender throat.
Harris, meanwhile, had taken up the abandoned parchment. Simon noted a twitch of his
mouth as he briefly scanned the script.
"Are you perchance the author of this verse, Mister Singleton?"
"Aye," he confessed, deciding it better to claim authorship than to be thought a plagiarist.
"I dabble in poetry…among other things."
"Do you, indeed?" Harris considered him with a sly smile. "Would you have time to join
me for a brandy?"
Simon inclined his head. "I suppose so. I've no other place to be at the moment."
Harris took Simon by the elbow and guided him to a small office where he gestured to an
overstuffed chair. He then poured two glasses of brandy, offering the first to Simon, then taking
a seat behind a worn oak desk. Simon swirled the brandy and then took an appreciative sip,
wondering what this was about.
Harris sat back, crossing an ankle over his knee. "Now then, Mister Singleton, I wish to
know more about this colorful verse of yours. I must say it evokes a certain image of wanton
delight." His mouth curved into a leer. "Do you often pen verse about subjects of…shall we
say…dubious virtue?"
"I write whatever inspires me," Simon replied.
"Indeed?" Harris pressed further. "What do you suppose might inspire you to pen an
entire volume of such verse?"
"I don't know," Simon replied. "What are you getting at, Harris?"
Harris set his brandy down. He then unlocked the top desk drawer and retrieved a thin,
worn black leather-bound book. "Do you know what this is?"
"Is it your legendary list of whores? I have heard rumors of such a book."
Harris' gaze narrowed. "So crude, Mister Singleton? I prefer to call it my Directory of
Covent Garden Ladies. This book indeed contains names, addresses, and descriptions of over a
hundred ladies of the town. It is a pet project begun many years ago. Since the demand has
expanded well beyond my ability to supply personal service, I now intend to offer copies of this
book for private subscription."
Simon laughed. "You are an enterprising man, Mister Harris, but how does this concern
me?" The question had barely passed over his lips before Simon's face split into a grin. "My
verse! You wish me to wax poetic on their charms!"
"Precisely." Harris returned his smile. "There are numerous ladies willing to advertise
their services. The fees would subsidize the printing costs. I should like to hire you to write said
advertisements—short, colorful pieces, evocative and titillating, for each of our listed Covent
Garden ladies. Could you do this, Mister Singleton?"
Simon slouched back with an indolent smile. "It all depends on what you are willing to
pay me."
"I am prepared to offer you twenty-five percent of the net. The initial print run will be
one thousand copies which I hope to sell at five shillings each."
Simon performed rapid calculations. The net proceeds should be over two hundred
pounds, leaving Simon with somewhere around fifty— a sum equal to his former quarterly
allowance. He took up the book and thumbed through the stained and dog-eared pages.
"How soon would you need this to be completed?"
"I had planned to send it Grub Street within the fortnight. Obviously, you will need
additional time to compose your odes to our votaries of Venus. How long will you require?"
"A month," Simon said, careful not to reveal his eagerness. He could hardly believe his
good luck—a healthy source of income derived solely from the fruits of his pen. With this job he
could afford to keep Freddie; and with such a magnificent muse at his command, his creative
juices would surely flow like a bottomless spring.
"Excellent!" Harris declared. "Have we an agreement then, Mister Singleton?"
Simon pocketed the black book and stood, offering his hand. "Indeed we have, Mister
Harris." Preoccupied with this unusual turn of fortune, Simon was three strides to the door before
he recalled his original purpose in coming to the Shakespear's Head. He paused and then turned
back to Harris who regarded him expectantly.
"Is there something more, Mister Singleton?"
"Well, yes," Simon said, massaging his chin. "Er…you see…there is something I wish to
procure, but I am a bit short on funds at the moment."
Harris laughed. "You've no need of my services when the book is in your very hands!"
"It's not that kind of request. Er…I am in need of a gown."
"A gown?" Harris' gaze narrowed. "This is not a Molly house, Mister Singleton."
A flare of heat invades Simon's face "N-not for me, of c-course! It's for
my…my…sister…a gift…for her birthday. She desires something in silk."
"Your sister has very expensive taste, Mister Singleton. A silk gown will cost you dearly.
Are you sure some other pretty trinket won't suffice? A new fan or a pair of gloves perhaps?"
"No, Harris. It must be a gown made of Spitalfields silk."
Harris shrugged. "'Tis no skin off my nose if you choose to be led around by yours."
Simon bristled. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Let me share a bit of wisdom from one with vast experience managing a stable of
whores—"
"She's not a whore."
"Of course not. She's your sister," Harris offered a placating smile. "But the nature of all
women is the same. You would do well to exercise care, lest you spoil the creature. The fair sex
is universally avaricious, and notoriously fickle."
"I'm only in need of a gown, Harris, not advice. I would also be much obliged of a small
advance to assist me in the matter of procurement. I understand it is not an uncommon practice."
"Very well." Harris shrugged. "I know someone who can assist you.” He retrieved his
calling card and scrawled on the back, handing it to Simon. "Go to Mrs. Martin just across the
Piazza. Give her this card and she will extend you credit in the amount of ten pounds. The
amount should suffice for your needs."
Simon accepted the card and tucked it into his breast pocket with a grin. "Thank you,
Harris."
He gave Simon a meaningful look. "I hope your sister shows you proper gratitude."
"I am sure she will be exceedingly gratified." Simon departed with an imagination
brimming with visions of Freddie's various and sundry manifestations of enduring appreciation.
Chapter Three
"Simon! Where on earth have you been?" demanded Lady Singleton.
He winced, his hopes of slinking upstairs unnoticed, dashed. She approached with her
nose twitching. He'd never considered it before, but his mother rather resembled a rabbit.
"Spirits, Simon? You smell distinctly of spirits! You have been to a tavern!" Righteous
fire smoldered in her accusing eyes.
"Mother, it's not what you think—”
"You told me you were calling upon the Reverend Dodd to borrow a book of sermons."
The pained look in her eyes evoked a pang of guilt, if not quite contrition. He really did
love his mother and hated to disappoint her, but her saintly expectations were impossible for any
mortal to live up to.
"Yes, Mother," Simon scrambled to explain the brandy. It seemed to him a greater
kindness, and therefore a lesser sin, to offer up a small prevarication. "Indeed, I have a volume
right here in my pocket that I intend to study most diligently."
Her face instantly softened. "Do you, Simon? Perhaps you could read it to me. If you
hope to be heard from the pulpit, you must apply yourself to the art of oration."
He smiled. "Of course, you are right, Mama, but I would first prefer to familiarize myself
and commit some key passages to memory."
"A brilliant idea!" Lady Singleton exclaimed. "What is the theme of this sermon book?"
Damn! Damn! Bloody damn! I should have anticipated that one!
Simon searched his memory desperate to recall a well-known sermon—or any sermon at
all! "The Mount," he blurted the only one that came to mind. "The Sermon on the Mount."
She clasped her hands with a look of rapture. "An exposition on our Lord's great
beatitudes? You must tell me who the author is? Is it Dr. Dodd?"
A reply in the affirmative might lead her to question Dodd later. "No, Mama. The
discourse was penned by that…that…traveling Methodist fellow."
"Dr. Wesley? His sermons are well renowned!" She extended her hand. "May I see it?"
Double Damn! He closed his eyes on an inward groan. He could almost feel the
individual beads of sweat popping out of his forehead. Simon reached into his pocket with a
genuine prayer. "Here it is, Mama. Just a plain black sermon book. There is nothing special to
see, but if you will allow me to give it my full devotion for a few hours, I'll be happy to recite
what I commit to memory."
"That would be utterly delightful, Simon." She cupped his cheek with a warm smile.
"Shall we say later this evening? I shall be in sad want of company with your father at his club
again. Will you join me for supper?"
"If you don't mind, I'd prefer to tray in my room while I study," he asked.
"But of course. Your dedication is admirable. I just knew all this recent ruckus had to be
the wicked influence of that rogue DeVere."
"As you say, Mama. Until this evening." He bussed her cheek.
Once out of sight, Simon released the air from his lungs in a long, slow gush. He thanked
his guardian angel for his reprieve—and promised to repent of at least some of his sins.
***
Simon retired to his room where he immersed himself in study of Harris' book. Simon
had thought it would be an effortless undertaking to pen witty homage to these birds of Paradise,
but after thumbing through dozens of pages, his well of inspiration remained dry. Aside from
names, addresses, and physical descriptions, there were a few crude notes written in the margin
detailing attributes, talents, and preferred sexual acts. To his dismay, nothing stirred his poetic
passion or ignited his imagination. In actuality, the only stirring was in his prick. Yes, that part
of him was highly inspired. He threw down his quill and raked a hand through his hair.
He opened the book again, determined to focus more diligently on the work at hand, only
to read a particularly colorful description of one plump and toothsome wench called Cherry Belle
for her practice of rouging herself—cheeks, mouth, nipples, and even her nether lips.
Bugger it all!
He slammed the book down. Was this some cruel joke? Or perhaps an agonizing penance
he had to pay for his willful iniquity?
Fully aroused, Simon slumped in the chair and loosened his cravat with a resigned sigh.
He then unbuttoned his falls, determined to take matters in hand. He fisted himself and shut his
eyes, focusing all his frustration on visions of dear Cherry applying the rouge to her pebbled
nipples. He stroked leisurely up and down his shaft as she squeezed her breasts together with a
sly smile meant only for him—a dark and secretive gypsy smile—Freddie's smile.
He stroked harder and faster as Freddie smoothed her hands slowly over her naked belly
to her glorious mound of Venus. His cadence increased to a frantic pace as she parted her nether
lips with rouge-tipped fingers and delved inside with a moan of pleasure that echoed his own.
Freddie then knelt on all fours and spread her delectable arse cheeks. His bollacks
tightened when she turned her head and cast a beckoning gaze over her shoulder with those
fathomless dark and sultry eyes. He was nearing combustion—
"Simon?"
His gaze flew to the door. Immersed in his fantasy, he hadn't heard the light scratch until
it was almost too late. Releasing himself with a quiet stream of expletives, he fumbled with his
falls, barely managing to scrape his chair under the desk before the door flung open.
Lady Singleton stood in the doorway. "Simon, have you forgotten you were to recite for
me?"
He blinked dumbly. "Ah, er… Is it that late already?" Sermons had been the furthest
thing from his mind.
"It is past seven o'clock. You have been buried in that book for hours." She approached
with her brisk little step, wearing a look of concern. "Are you all right, Simon? You don't look
well at all!" She came close enough to lay the back of her hand on his forehead. "You feel
feverish. Shall I send for a posset?"
"I've come down with a bit of a headache," he said. "It is nothing, Mama. Perhaps I'll just
retire early to bed." Yes, precisely the place where I should have conducted my former activity.
"Dear boy, you must have overtaxed yourself with all this study."
Before could anticipate her actions, Lady Singleton picked up the book. She scanned one
page and then another. Her gaze widening, her mouth gaping.
"I don't know what kind of book this is, but it's not a volume of sermons!"
"It's not what it appears, Mama!"
Her voice quivered. "It appears to be a directory of harlots! What is my son doing with
such a book? Who put this…this…wickedness into your hands? It was that devil DeVere, wasn't
it?"
"DeVere is in France, Mama. He's quite innocent…this time."
"Where then, Simon?" she demanded. "Was it in the same place where you imbibed
spirits? I cannot bear it!" She pressed her hand against her heart. "This work of Satan must be
consigned to the purifying flames!"
"No!" Simon almost leaped from his chair, but stopped himself in the nick of time. With
his falls still unbuttoned and his prick hanging out, he could only clutch the desk in dread as his
mother marched to the hearth. "Please, Mama! Don't," he begged.
"Much better the book go to the fiery furnace than you!"
"Just let me explain!"
"Explain? How? How can you explain this?"
"It's…it's my work," he blurted. My mission on behalf of the Magdalen House."
She fixed him with an incredulous stare. "Your work?"
"Yes. I had intended to surprise you. The book is why I went to the tavern. That volume
contains the names and addresses of hundreds of poor, lost wretches in need of salvation."
Brilliant, Sin. Utterly inspired!
"Simon!" She gasped. "You are right! This is all the proof we need to petition Queen
Charlotte for funding a larger domicile." She rushed back to clasp his head against her bosom.
"You dear, dear boy! How could I ever have doubted you?"
Moments later Simon offered a second prayer of thanks to his guardian angel for another
blessed escape.
Chapter Four
Simon awoke early the next morning with one thought that he dispatched through manual
means. It was but a temporary palliative for his fever. Freddie remained the only panacea, but
thanks to Harris, he now had the means to affect his cure.
Simon knocked on Freddie's door, impatient to see the elation alighting in her eyes when
she opened to her new lover. To his dismay, the door parted only far enough to glimpse the tip of
her nose and one dark eye. "You again."
"Of course it's me! Who else were you expecting?"
He thought he heard a mumbled expletive. The door swung into the chamber. She raked
him with an insolent stare. "If you've come empty handed you might as well leave now. I meant
what I said."
"But, Freddie—"
"No, Simon! I won't let you bed me. I'll have a real protector or none at all."
Simon clutched his heart. "You cut me to the quick, Freddie. Did I not make you a
promise?"
"Men are known to make false promises."
Simon puffed in affront. "You measure me with the wrong staff, Freddie. I am a
gentleman of my word. I promised you Spitalfields silk, and that is what you will have."
"Where is it then?" She asked with biting sarcasm,"Have you a gown in your pocket?"
"It is yet to be made," he replied. "I am here to take you to the shop of Mrs. Martin of
Covent Garden Square, a maker of fine ladies' attire where you will be custom fitted."
"A custom gown?" She speared him with a disbelieving look.
"Of whatever color and mode delights you most. You didn't suppose I would give you
some ill-fitting second-handed rag, did you?"
Her flickering eyes told him she had presumed precisely that. Bugger! A pawned gown
hadn't even occurred to him! He sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound…or ten.
***
Simon spent the next few hours in total tedium sipping tea in the mantua maker's tiny
reception room, while Freddie had her fitting. Mrs. Martin had a number of half-finished gowns
that caught Freddie's eye. She'd settled an outrageously gaudy confection in yellow and pink.
Although close to her size the alterations took up the entire day. But when Freddie, or Frederica,
as she now insisted upon, finally emerged, the vision fairly stole his breath.
Her modest breasts were thrust together and upward, almost out of the gown, like choice
fruit ripe for plucking. She spread her arms and spun in a circle, swirling and delighting in the
novelty of her voluminous, panniered petticoats. "What do you think, Simon?" Freddie giggled.
"I think my new muse shall be universally admired."
Her forehead crinkled. "Muse? What's a muse?"
"The original muses were nine goddesses who inspired the great artists and poets of
antiquity. Now it refers to one who rouses a man's soul to create."
"You expect me to rouse your soul, Simon? My Lord DeVere only expected me to rouse
his—"
He put a finger to her lips. "Yes, Freddie, but pray let us keep DeVere out of this, shall
we?"
"You never mentioned soul-rousing, Simon. It seems to me rousing a man's soul should
command a premium." She gave him a calculating look and then cast her gaze around the shop.
She fingered a lace fan, picked it up, and fluttered it before her face.
"You desire the fan as well?"
She smiled and dropped it in his lap, only to caress a pair of kid gloves. She arched a
brow and those, too, landed in Simon's lap. His inner dread increased with every object that
caught Freddie's eye
Mrs. Martin entered with a smile. "The gown suits the young lady well, does it not? Of
course we had to provide the proper foundations for it. Shall I put these on your account as well,
Mister Singleton?"
"Yes, of course. As well as these." He indicated the fan and gloves.
She added the items and then handed him the account book to sign.
Blood hell! Nine pounds, six shillings.
Simon signed his name with a wince and a flourish.
"There is a fine cobbler across the square," Mrs. Martin volunteered.
"Cobbler?" Freddie raised her hem to reveal tiny feet encased in a pair of sensible brown
leather shoes.
"Yes, surely such a fine gown requires slippers. Masters, across the square, can surely
fabricate a pair to match."
Freddie eyed Simon.
"Silk slippers?" He swallowed hard and forced a smile while performing calculations that
made his heart drop.
He reminded himself that he was far from ruined. Harris owed him another forty pounds
for his labor. Yet within a few hours, Simon found himself almost twenty pounds poorer. He'd
spent a princely sum granting her every whim, including a hearty meal at the Rose Tavern
complete with French wine. Nearly half of his earnings were already spent, and he'd yet to write
a single verse. He consoled told himself that Freddie's show of gratitude would surely inspire the
full volume of verses.
Of course Freddie then demanded a hackney coach for fear of ruining her slippers—
another shilling dropped into the Freddie bucket. When he attempted to sit beside her, she
insisted he take the seat opposite to avoid crushing her new mantua.
"Bugger the gown, Freddie! It can be pressed. Don't you see how I burn for you?"
He flung himself from his seat to kneel at her feet. Taking her hand in his, he plied
passionate kisses to each of her nail-bitten fingers. "Your lush lips make my pulse thunder. I
could drown in the fathomless black pools of your eyes. Verily, you set me aflame! If I don't
have you soon, I surely will perish!"
She chortled. "Which way shall you perish, Simon? Will you drown or burn? It certainly
can't be both at once."
"Heartless jade!" he cried, ready to rent his hair in vexation. "Do you delight in
tormenting me?"
The coach jerked to a halt. When the driver flung open the door, Simon swept her up into
his arms, eager to get her someplace private but the landlord barred their entrance with a glower.
"No doxies allowed here! 'Tis a respectable house!"
"Doxy? You are quite mistaken. The young lady resides here. I was merely keeping her
shoes from ruin," Simon explained.
"There ain't no ladies of any kind in this house. I lets only to respectable gents."
"But my Lord DeVere has a set of rooms. This is his sister come to visit. Surely you see
the resemblance?"
The landlord crossed his arms and widened his stance. "No females allowed. Be they
relatives or no."
Bugger! What now?
It seemed Simon's only recourse was to turn Frederica back into Freddie, but she'd cast
away her male attire, refusing to wear it again. Where the devil could he get more clothes?
"Perhaps I can just leave a note upstairs?"
The landlord grunted assent. "The doxy stays here."
Simon set her down with a groan and took the stairs by twos. He packed a few garments
into a sack and returned to Freddie. "We'll go back to Covent Garden and I'll hire you a room for
the night. Tomorrow, however, you must return here as DeVere's valet."
"But I don't want to," she protested.
"You must, Freddie."
She sulked in silence until they arrived at the Shakespear's Head.
"Ah, Mister Singleton, my poet laureate!" Harris greeted him with a smile. "How goes
our mutual endeavor?" His gaze flickered over Freddie. "This must be your lovely sister."
"Er, yes," Simon replied. "She is up from the country for some shopping and has missed
her return coach. I seek lodging for her. A modest room is all we…she…requires."
"But of course. We can accommodate you for ten shillings."
"Could you please put it on my account," Simon asked.
Harris' brows pulled together. "Another advance? I have yet to see even a page of your
verse."
"Very well, Harris." Simon plucked out his gold cravat pin and handed it to Harris. "You
may accept this as surety until I deliver the promised work."
"I never had the least doubt." Harris accepted the pin and then conducted them to a
modest but clean chamber.
The moment the door closed, Simon turned the key and took Freddie into his arms.
"Freddie, my dearest Freddie," he murmured, plying kisses to her cheeks, her throat, and finally
her lips. Rather than melting into his arms, she remained stiff and unresponsive. "What is it
now?" he cried.
"'You said you'd take me to the theatre."
"And I shall, dearest," he appeased. "But it's been a very long day, and I desire to be
alone with you now. Have I not treated you well? I bought your gown, your slippers, the dinner,
the wine. I have kept my promise Freddie…and then some."
"You also said I wouldn't have to wear breeches again."
"But, my dear, you must understand you cannot live in the house at St. James as a
woman."
"Then maybe I need another house," she said.
"Freddie, please be reasonable. The rooms at St. James have been paid up for six months.
It makes little difference if you must pretend to be a valet for a while longer. Your life will not
change from what it was. You will be comfortably housed and well fed. You had no prior
complaint, did you?"
"But that was before I came here. I like this place better with all the fine ladies and
gents."
"But it's a damned bawdy house! You can't live here!"
She gave an indignant sniff. "Others do. And they don't have to dress like boys."
"Enough, Freddie!" Simon groaned. "I have done all in my power to delight you, yet
nothing seems to satisfy you. And I certainly am far from satisfied."
She regarded him with wide misty eyes and quivering lips. "You are vexed."
This time Simon was unmoved by her tearful display. "Damned right, I'm vexed! What
have I received for my largesse but complaints and ingratitude?"
"All right, Simon." She threw down her lace fan with a sigh. "I'll let you take me to bed."
She turned her back to him and reached for her laces. "I need help with these."
Simon watched her struggle with the gown, making no move to assist. He should have
been elated after days of torturous anticipation, but in these last moments something had
changed. "You needn't bother, Freddie."
Her dark eyes flashed. "What do you mean?"
"It has been a long day for both of us. I'm going to leave now."
"But—I want you to stay," she insisted.
"You should have thought of that before."
She clutched at his arm with panicked look. "You are not coming back, are you?"
He pried her fingers from his sleeve one by one. "The clothes are yours to keep or to
pawn as you see fit. The lodging in St. James will remain yours if you desire it, but no, Freddie, I
shall not return. Perhaps I'll suffer remorse later, but at present I have no desire for you."
Like the calm after a storm, his passion for her had spent.
***
Simon awoke the next morning without regret—at least not for leaving. His only remorse
was that he'd allowed her to play him for a fool. Nevertheless, he recalled his promise to DeVere
to look after her. Unable to break faith with his best friend, he returned to Covent Garden,
resolved only to see Freddie safely returned to St. James.
To his surprise, the room was empty when he lifted the latch and entered. All was in
perfect order as if it hadn't been slept in. Had something happened to her? He rapidly descended
the stairs in search of Harris. "Have you seen my sister?" he anxiously inquired.
"Indeed I have, Mister Singleton. Last evening after you departed."
"Last evening? But she was in her room when I left."
"That may be, but the wen…er…lady… appeared in the late hours in the gaming rooms.
She was in the company of Ensign Browning who won five hundred guineas at hazard. He kissed
her and called her his good luck charm after his lucky cast. He later announced he was taking the
wench to Gretna Green. Of course our good Ensign was quite disguised at that point. The stupid
sod will sober up in a few days to find himself leg-shackled."
Simon glowered. It was bad enough to have lost his head over her, but far worse to learn
he was tossed aside for the very first pigeon with plumper pockets.
"Look, lad," Harris consoled. "There's no cause to mourn the loss. You should thank the
gods to be rid of the baggage."
Harris remark was little balm to his bruised pride. He'd sought more than a lover in
Freddie. Perhaps he'd expected too much. He'd been convinced that with her as his muse, he
would surely ascend to hitherto unknown poetic heights. He'd dreamed of finding the woman
with the key to unlock his passions and open his creative floodgates. Perhaps he'd expected too
much. Maybe his longed-for muse was like the mythical chimera… and simply did not exist.
Chapter Five
Covent Garden, Westminster – six months later
With a voluptuous, raven-haired beauty draped on either arm, Simon entered the crowded
taproom of the Shakespear's Head. He exchanged pleasantries with several acquaintances before
catching the eye of the establishment's headwaiter.
"Ah, my darlings!" he exclaimed. "There is just the gent I promised you to find."
Jack Harris came forward at once, greeting Simon with a broad smile while his glittering
gaze appraised the two young women. "Well, well, Mister Singleton. What have we here?"
"Jack, my friend, these delightful daughters of Erin are Brigid and Bronaugh O'Malley,
just arrived from the fine city of Dublin.” Simon completed the introduction, "Ladies, I make
known to you Jack Harris, a gentleman who could be highly instrumental in your successful
establishment in our fine metropolis.”
"A pleasure, sar," the twins replied almost in unison and bobbed a giggling curtsey.
Harris swept a return bow. "I am doubly enchanted, ladies."
"Rightly so." Simon laughed. "And you are also much indebted to me."
"Is that right?" Harris raised a brow.
"'Tis, indeed! 'Twas quite a coup stealing these two Hibernian nymphs from under
Charlotte Hayes' nose."
"I commend you, Singleton. Mrs. Hayes is not a woman to be trifled with. However did
you accomplish such a feat?"
"It was a stroke of blind luck, actually. I happened through Charing Cross just as the
Chester-wagons arrived from the north. Knowing her practice of impressing innocent maids into
her den of iniquity, I swooped in as swiftly as any peregrine to snatch this most perfect pair of
doves out of her grasp. Bold as brass, I embraced my dearest Irish cousins, whom I had come
especially to meet."
"With a most un-cousinly kiss!" Brigid tittered.
Simon winked. "I assure you, our blood connection is the thinnest."
Harris gifted the sisters with his most disarming smile. "I welcome you to London, Miss
Brigid and Miss Bronaugh. Might I buy you ladies a tankard?" Signaling the drawer, he led them
to a corner table, where shortly a trio of frothy mugs swiftly appeared. "I presume you came
south seeking employment?"
"Aye, sar," Bronaugh replied. "Thar be nothin' fer an honest lass in Dooblin."
Harris' smile hardened. "Honest lasses, are ye? So ye desire nothing better than to empty
some nobleman's chamber pot?"
The sisters exchanged a wide-eyed look. Brigid then protested, "Mayhap not quite so
honest, sar."
"Nay," Bronaugh chimed in. "But a Dooblin doxy chances a beatin' with every trick and
is looky if she turns enou' coin to buy her meat. 'Tis why we come ta Loondon."
"Then you are not averse to keeping company with some of the fine gentlemen who habit
this upstanding establishment?" Harris swept an arm to encompass the crowded tavern.
Simon raised his tankard. "Here buskin'd Beaus in rich lac'd Cloathes. Like Lords and
Squires do bluster; Bards, quacks and cits, knaves, fools and wits, an odd, surprising cluster"
"That was lovely, Simon," Brigid gushed. "Be ye a poet?"
"I do my poor best. Which recalls me to my original purpose in coming here." Simon
retrieved a bundle of bound pages from the capacious pockets of his frock coat. He handed them
to Harris. "I've just returned from the Grub Street printer with the proofs for the new and
improved edition of our infamous guidebook. Since I'm already late in meeting my friends, you
may settle up with me later."
Harris nodded. "Demand is increasing. I may even request a second print run this time."
"All the better for both of us." Simon grinned. "Now as to my dear cousins…"
Harris raised a hand. "While one cannot deny their natural charms, sadly, my stables are
quite full."
"Come now, Harris!" Simon chided.
"I am a man of business," Harris argued. "Taking them in as they are will cost me
considerable upfront expense. Not only are they in need of clothes, they are in dire want of town
polish. It would be weeks or even months before I could turn them out."
Brigid looked affronted. "The gents ne'er complained afore!"
"You are no longer in Dooblin," Harris mocked. "The standards are quite different in this
establishment. Just look about you."
Twin pairs of wide blue eyes scanned the room, taking in the painted and powdered
actresses, mistresses, and other women of pleasure, all begowned in silks and lace.
"Aye," Brigid replied. "There be a number of foin ladies and gents." The color deepened
in her cheeks. She self-consciously smoothed her rough-spun petticoat.
"Every wench here is turned out in high style, yet they are all actresses and whores,"
Harris added, " albeit little separates the two. It is what the well-heeled now expect, a harlot who
can mimic the manners of a duchess, but who conducts herself in private like the lewdest
whore."
Bronaugh jutted her generous bosom and raised her chin. "Put us in such foinery and
there be none to outshine me and me sister."
"You would soon become the reigning beauties," Simon agreed.
"But all comes at a price," Harris argued. "Outfitting you would require more than just
painting your pretty faces and replacing your fustian and homespun with silk and lace. You
require training in elocution and deportment."
"Locushun?" Brigid looked to Simon.
"You see, Simon? She demonstrates my point. Without town polish, they may as well
walk the streets."
"Damn it all, Harris!" Simon furrowed a hand through his hair. "You know I can't keep a
mistress—let alone two! But I won't leave them without any protection. Surely you can make
some accommodation."
Harris shook his head. "It would require far too much time and effort before I would see
any return on my investment."
Knowing he'd been played, Simon groaned. "Bloody hell! Just take their initial expenses
out of what you owe me. Must you exploit me at every turn?"
"'Ye would do that fer us, Simon?" Brigid asked.
"Aye. I could hardly leave you to the vultures." Unfortunately, by the time Harris added
his premium to all that the girls would need, he'd find himself once more with pockets to let.
Simon looped an arm around each voluptuous feminine bundle. "Mister Harris runs an
exceptionally orderly 'disorderly house’. He has more than adequate accommodations above
stairs and will furnish all of your needs. As to the town polish you require, I would be more than
happy to engage my own services."
"What do ye mean?" Brigid asked.
"I shall tutor you both in speech and deportment."
"You?" Bronaugh giggled.
"Aye, me! Don't look so surprised. God knows I've spent far more time in the company of
women than with my own gender." He didn't add that it would also save him considerable coin.
"Will the arrangement suit?"
"Aye!" they answered in a delighted chorus. "'Ye'll soon eat them wards, Mister Harris,"
said Bronaugh. "With Simon's help, we'll not be common hars fer long. You just see if some foin
gent don't take us into high keepin'."
"Any man would be a fool to pass you up," Simon gallantly replied.
Harris shook his head. "Always the gentleman, eh, Singleton? Even to the commonest
whore."
"All women are deserving of gentle treatment, Harris, no matter their circumstances."
Simon's suspected his soft heart for women would be his ruin, but the fair sex provided
his greatest joy and delight. Simon worshipped women, exalting in soft, feminine curves that
molded perfectly to a man's body, in the silkiness of their hair, in the lushness of a
knowledgeable mouth. The tantalizing scent of feminine musk…their taste…. drove him to
distraction.
Simon rose and took possession of each of their hands, raising them in turn to his lips.
"But why to one man should woman be possessed? Is it not better she should the numbers bless?
For all smell the rose, but is its scent any less? Adieu, my pets. As I am late to meet some
companions, I commend you darlings unto Harris' gentle keeping."
Simon departed the tavern with a raffish grin stretching his mouth. Twins, begad! 'Twas a
wet dream come true!
***
"So, you grace us with your presence at last!" remarked DeVere. "We expected you an
hour ago, Sin."
"I had some business that required my immediate attention." Simon flipped back his coat
skirts, spun the chair around to straddle it backward, and then pilfered Ned's tankard. Draining it
dry, he wiped his grinning mouth with the back of his hand.
DeVere smirked. "I must say I admire the manner in which you've managed to employ
your talents."
"I only seek to raise a low and much-despised vocation to a higher level," Simon replied.
Ned signaled the drawer to replace the drink Simon had pinched. "And what vocation
would that be?"
"Has Sin not told you, Ned? He's taken Harris' directory of Covent Garden whores to
poetic heights."
Ned sat back, appraising Simon from beneath furrowed brows. "So, you've become a
pimp?"
"My dear Ned, Harris provides a valuable service," Simon protested.
"By vetting whores like racehorses? Bollacks!" Ned exclaimed.
"Come now, Ned," DeVere protested. "Don't be such a prig!"
Ned shook his head and took a pull on his drink. "A spade is a bloody spade—and a
pimp, however poetically inclined, is still a pimp. Does Harris present this list of his right
alongside the supper menu?"
"One should always contemplate desert." DeVere quipped. "Have you perchance a copy,
Sin? I am intrigued to see this infamous book."
"As a matter of fact, I have the proof sheets." Simon retrieved a bound bundle from his
coat pocket and handed it to his friend.
DeVere slumped in his chair, gnawing his lower lip as he perused the pages. "Polly
Nimblewrist?" He regarded Simon with a raised brow. "Really, Sin?"
Simon chuckled. "Some ladies prefer to adopt a colorful moniker to highlight their
particular talents."
DeVere flipped idly to another page. "Her gaze belies the flame within, and her mouth
would tempt a saint to sin?"
"A well-earned accolade." Simon winked.
DeVere's mouth twitched. "It appears this so-called literary endeavor includes some
perquisites?" DeVere continued to another page. "Do not venture where such danger lies, but
shun the sight of her victorious eyes’?" His gaze shot up.
"I should think that one is self-explanatory. At last report, she was frothing black saliva."
DeVere shuddered and closed the book. "Mercury treatment is not a guaranteed cure for
the pox."
Ned asked, "Are you not still bound for the clergy, Sin?"
Simon heaved a deep sigh. "It is my dear Mama's fondest wish for me to join the church,
but I fear my nature is quite incompatible with a theological vocation. I have searched deeply,
and cannot seem to summon an inkling of pious sentiment, which makes me an exceedingly poor
candidate for the clergy."
"Even so, why would you wish to dirty your hands with something like this?"
"The answer is simple, Ned—I need the money."
"But you receive a more than adequate allowance."
"That he mostly squanders on women of easy virtue," DeVere drawled.
"Admittedly," Simon confessed, unabashed. "But now my father has reduced my
quarterly and demands a full account of every ha'penny. I tell you, it is humiliating in the
extreme! Unless I wish to live under such a yoke for the next three years— which I positively do
not— I must make my own living. If I must travail for my bread, how better than by the fruits of
my pen?"
"So you seek to combine your love of poetry and lewd women by writing poetry about
lewd women?" Ned replied dryly.
Simon clapped Ned on the back. "Precisely! Don't you see the ironic beauty of it?"
"What do you suppose will happen when your dear, devout mama gets wind of this?"
Ned asked.
"I have taken every precaution to ensure my anonymity." Simon retrieved the book from
DeVere. "My contribution to this little work is, and shall forever remain, a well-kept secret."
"Speaking of secrets…I was waiting for the right moment…." Ned's gaze dropped to the
contents of his tankard. "Hang it all."
"What the devil is it, Ned?" Simon asked.
"Out with it!" DeVere demanded.
Ned drew a great breath, then blurted, "Wish me happy, my friends—for I'm to be wed."
DeVere hissed. "The devil you say!"
"It's true," Ned replied. "I have been blessed with the hand of Miss Annalee Marsdale."
"Bloody Hell!" DeVere scrubbed his face. "I can't believe I'm even hearing this! The
three of us were to go on the Grand Tour together. You would give that up? I have to question
the judgment of any man who willingly subjects himself to such an affliction."
"Love is not a choice one makes, DeVere," Ned protested. "It is a force of nature and not
of our will."
DeVere looked to Simon. "Mayhap you can interpret this poetic babble for surely I can't
comprehend his language!"
Simon smirked. "You only scoff because you're a stonehearted rogue who has never
experienced the rapture of true love's embrace."
DeVere opened his snuff box with a flip of his thumb. "Being the debauched creature that
I am, I'd much prefer the magic of her mouth." He took a pinch. "That's precisely the cure for this
affliction, Ned. Just tumble the chit and purge yourself."
Ned's jaw twitched dangerously. "She's a virtuous girl, DeVere, not some Covent Garden
strumpet."
"There's much to be said for a good strumpet." Simon said.
"Indeed," DeVere agreed. "And I think our friend here might be sadly in need of a
thorough strumping to re-order his mind."
"Enough!" Ned pounded a fist on the table. "It is done already. The first of the banns are
to be called on Sunday. I only delayed my departure from town to tell you sods in person."
"Begad!" DeVere cried. "I still can't believe you're serious!"
"As I live and breathe." Ned rose to his feet with a thunderous look. "And I fear neither of
you will remain living and breathing if I don't excuse myself."
DeVere held his silence until Ned was out of earshot. "We can't let him do it, Sin."
Simon shrugged and tossed back his drink. "Apart from locking him away, perhaps at
Bedlam, I see little we can do to prevent it."
"That's it!" DeVere cried.
"What diabolical notion have you in mind?" Simon asked.
"All in due time, my friend, but the first order of business is to get the poor misguided
fool foxed to the gills."
***
Simon awoke with the evil glare of sunlight striking his face and the throbbing awareness
of an exploding head. Brigid, or was it Bronaugh, God love them both, lay blessedly naked on
top of him. But weren't the twins supposed to have been with Ned?
Where the devil was Ned? Simon turned his head to discover a particularly ugly foot
beside his left ear. It was attached to an equally unappealing and hairy leg. Dear God, how much
royal punch had they consumed?
The plan, of course, had been to hinder Ned's departure long enough to convince him of
his folly, but Ned had more than proven his head for drink. Simon and DeVere had raised so
many cups extolling the various virtues of the bride-to-be that Simon feared he'd run out of
lyrical allegories of her charms. He and DeVere had finally begun pouring their own glasses
under the table for fear they'd pass out before getting Ned upstairs, where Brigid and Bronaugh
awaited.
The twins had been easily conscripted into the game even before they got a vision of the
strapping Ned Chambers. But the moment they'd got him into the chamber, the giant idiot had
gone crashing to the floor like some great felled oak. At least they'd got him upstairs first.
The rest of the night was now a bit of a blur, but judging by the battered feeling of
Simon's body and his exploding head, it must have involved a great deal of physical
exertion…and noise.
As Simon deliberated how best to extricate himself from the octopus-like tangle of four
sets of limbs, a great shadow came over him. He looked up with a grimace.
"Ah, Ned. I was just wondering at your absence, though I doubt this bed could contain
yet another."
"Where are my clothes, Sin?" Ned demanded, his gaze a mere slit.
"Clothes?" Simon repeated blankly.
"Yes. Clothes." He crossed his arms crossed over his broad chest. "I seem to be devoid of
any."
Simon smirked. "However did you lose them?"
"I'm not in a humor for humor," Ned replied. "Don't make me drag your arse from the
bed."
"It would be a wasted effort, for you'll find I have no clothes either." Simon chuckled. He
raised the sheet that only partially covered the four bodies. "Indeed, none of us seem to have any
clothes."
"Pox on you and DeVere both!"
Ned took hold of the sheet and gave a great tug that sent DeVere and Bronaugh—or was
it Brigid?—tumbling to the floor with a respective thump, groan, and shriek.
Ned replied with a murderous look, "I need my clothes. I must be off to Yorkshire at
once!"
DeVere sat up. "Still about that business, eh? Have you truly taken leave of all good
sense?"
"My good sense tells me to take my leave of you!" Ned growled. "I will not humiliate
Annalee by failing to appear for our betrothal announcement. For the last time, send for my
clothes or you will both suffer the consequences."
DeVere's stony gaze flickered to Simon and then to the fists balled at Ned's side. "I'm
sorry, Ned. We just can't do that."
One of the twins cried out as Ned's fist smashed into DeVere's jaw, crumpling him to the
floor. "I gave you fair warning, DeVere. I won't say I'm sorry." Ned massaged his fist and then
turned his attention to Simon, who raised his hands in surrender. Ned, however, ignored him,
proceeding to snatch up the bed sheet and wrap it about himself toga-style. "I'm going to leave
now, Sin. There is nothing more you can do to stop me."
"Think of what you do, man!" Simon cried.
"I know precisely what I do. I'm abiding by the code of a gentleman and upholding the
honor of a lady."
"Codes? Honor?" Simon repeated. "I don't follow you."
"Damn it all, Sin! If you two misguided miscreants must bloody well know everything, I
wed because Annalee could be carrying my child."
Simon broke into a chuckle. "Damn me, DeVere, mayhap we've misjudged him. It
appears Ned's not such a dull dog after all!"
DeVere sat up, massaging his jaw. "Mayhap not, but he's a damnably careless one! How
could you let it happen, Chambers? Surely you have been long enough in my sphere to
understand there are ways and means to prevent such mishaps."
"It just happened!" Ned replied with an impatient noise.
"So you lost your head in a moment of passion," DeVere interjected, "and will now pay
dearly for the rest of your natural life."
"It's not like that! I love her. Have neither of you worthless sods, any notion of deeper
feeling?" Ned asked. "Any concept of tender devotion?"
Simon chuckled. "I fear our Ned has truly been struck by cupid's dart."
A clamor outside their chamber followed by a pounding on the door interrupted the
exchange. Simon groaned, clutching his aching head. "Tell them to go away! Very. Far. Away!"
Ned strode to the door, jerked it open, and then slammed it shut again. He turned to his
comrades, grim-faced, and braced his large body against it. "It seems we have some uninvited
guests."
The pounding grew more insistent. A voice boomed, "Open up in the name of the
Westminster Magistrate!"
"Bloody hell!" Simon cried. "Can it get any worse?"
"Open or we'll remove the door," another voice echoed the first.
Ned stepped aside with a shrug of defeat and the door burst open.
DeVere responded with a stream of colorful epithets, while with twin cries, Brigid and
Bronaugh scrambled to hide behind the bed.
"Repent of thy iniquity and be saved!" proclaimed a horrifyingly familiar voice.
His sins had finally caught up with him. Simon groaned as the tiny woman marched into
the center of the room in a militant manner. He made no effort to hide his nakedness when her
gaze froze on him.
He smiled. "Good morning, Mama."
"Simon?" Lady Singleton gasped and then fell directly into a swoon.
***
"Drunken debauchery and cavorting with prostitutes? The atrocity of your conduct
beggars all description! Simon's father continued the harangue. "Where is your sense of
decency? Of discretion?"
"Technically speaking," Simon said, "one cannot call them prostitutes as there was no
coin exchanged."
Lord Singleton silenced his son with a cold stare. "You have publicly humiliated your
family."
"But it was only a harmless lark." Simon groaned.
"Enough, Simon! Your entire life has been naught but a lark—a circumstance that ends
here and now."
"You're cutting me off?"
His father glowered. "Oh no, my boy. That tack seems to have proven singularly
ineffectual in curbing your debauchery. It's time for far more drastic measures."
"What do you mean?" Simon felt a growing sense of alarm. With all the pranks he'd
pulled over the years, he'd never seen this particular look in his father's eyes.
"You have not only shamed your family, you have also utterly destroyed any chance of
gaining a living by the church. Thus, it appears only one option remains."
"But I can think of any number of alternatives," Simon argued. "Indeed, I am even now in
the process of compiling a volume of my work—"
"You refer to your lewd and lascivious scribbles merit not the least attention in this
discussion," Lord Singleton cut him off. "No offspring of mine is going to earn his bread as some
ha'penny hack living in Grub Street squalor. No, my boy! You will give up your libertine
leanings to earn a respectable living. Indeed, your mother has already posted a letter to your
Uncle Thomas."
Simon's mouth went instantly dry. "Uncle Thomas?"
"Now that he is appointed Commander-in-Chief of his Majesty's North American forces,
the time is nigh to purchase you a commission. Your latest escapade has made this all but a
necessity."
Simon's stomach clenched. The room began to spin. "God, no! Not the army! Anything
but the army!"
"Indeed the army! I only await Thomas' response as to which unit he would place you
in."
"Surely you cannot mean to ship me off to that godforsaken wilderness!"
"I mean to do precisely that. You will set sail immediately for New York, where you will
join one of General Thomas Gage's fine regiments."
"But I am no soldier!" Simon cried.
"Not now, perhaps, but you will be soon enough," his father replied icily.
Simon stared dumbly at his father's mouth, watching it work, but barely comprehending
the utterances that continued to spew forth. It was all too surreal. For years Simon had managed
to elude, defy, and flout all manner of authority, making larks, laughter, and love the very heart
of his existence. The army and all it represented with its rules, regulations, and regimentalism
was the antithesis of all he believed in. His very soul would be crushed beneath their marching
feet. Verily, to Simon, it was a fate worse than death.
"Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp,
Let's grimly kiss with bated breath;
As quietly and solemnly
As Life when it is kissing Death."
- A Fleeting Passion by William Henry Davies
Epilogue
A battlefield near Saratoga, New York -1777
He jerked awake at the sound of approaching voices, stifling first his groan and then the
urge to call out. They were enemy voices. Or looters. Albeit present circumstances made them
much the same. He attempted to bring his muddled thoughts into cohesion with a violent shake
of his head that only created an excruciating scintillation of sparks behind his eyes.
He recalled all now with visual flashes behind closed lids. He'd been part of a vanguard
that had ridden straight into an ambush. With saber in one hand and pistol in the other, his
weapons had been of little affect against an exploding cannon—a cannon the enemy wasn't
supposed to possess, a fatal blunder of the recon team. He'd been struck in the temple by a jolt of
molten lightning and blinded by his own blood. His horse had gone down, trapping him beneath,
the horse that still held him captive with its rapidly decomposing body.
He re-opened his eyes and looked wildly about. Dear God, how long had it been? Was it
only hours, or had it been days that he'd lain here half buried? The maggots feeding on his horse
indicated the latter. Now as full consciousness assailed him, so did the stench. His stomach
lurched with dry heaves from the sickly sweet perfume of death that surrounded him.
The enemy had drawn near enough that he could now hear other sounds—the crunch of
boots on bone and the grunt of exertion, followed by the sickly popping sound of air escaping
bloated bodies as enemy bayonets penetrated the corpses.
They were much closer.
Panic raced through his veins as he groped blindly for his sidearm. He didn't know how
long he had until they discovered him, but there was no escape. Even if he could dig his way out,
he'd lost all feeling in his legs. Perhaps he no longer had any legs and only the crushing weight
of an equine carcass had prevented him from hemorrhaging to death.
Fumbling with his left hand, he located the familiar cold metal cylinder that was the
barrel of his pistol. A single shot was all he needed. He prayed to God it was still loaded, for his
right hand was mangled beyond redemption and useless.
Bloody hell! The weapon was caked with dirt and dried blood. He rubbed it against his
coat in an attempt to clear away the bits of debris. He had only one chance. He couldn't afford for
it to jam, and time was growing short.
They were almost upon him.
His fingers trembled as he cocked the hammer. He attempted to raise the pistol, but even
this small exertion proved too draining of his already exhausted reserves. His hand dropped
lifelessly to his side.
Captain Simon Singleton's eyes fluttered shut to the lovely apparition of two laughing
Irish nymphs. A bawdy verse came to mind, painting a ghost of a smile across parched and
bloodied lips. As I draw my last breath and sigh my last sigh, I wish I was lost between dear
Brigid's thighs…
Sneak Peek: Jewel of the East (#5)
(Simon and Salime's story)
Medford Abbey, Kent -1784
A sharp rap soon sounded on the door. Ludovic, Viscount DeVere glanced up from his
periodical to the entrance of a liveried footman. "A message for you, my lord." The servant
offered the wax-sealed missive on a silver salver.
"It was delivered by a most…unusual…courier," the footman finished with a sniff of
disdain.
"Indeed? What do you mean?" Ludovic asked in a bored drawl.
"'Tis a behemoth blackamoor, my lord."
"Mustafa? What the devil?" Ludovic threw down his periodical and snatched up the
missive.
"He awaits in the kitchen. Insufferable rude creature he is. Just stands all akimbo. Refuses
to speak or to depart without an answer from your lordship."
"The man cannot speak. He has no tongue. They took it when they castrated the poor
devil."
The footman's eyes bulged. He involuntarily crossed his legs. Ludovic broke the seal and
scanned the contents with a deepening frown.
Most honored Efendi,
It is with the greatest humility that I appeal to he who once safeguarded my life. It is with
exceeding distress that I must entreat you once more, being much in need of a friend and
protector. Your most devoted and obedient servant,
Salime
Ludovic read the cryptic note once more. Salime in want of a protector? What a sticky
situation that created. At first he wondered why she had appealed to him, but there were few
people she trusted. Given their shared history, he would never deny her his aid. Moreover,
Salime had been most instrumental in helping him to achieve his present state of connubial bliss.
For that alone he owed her his undying gratitude.
"Tell him I shall be in touch with his mistress shortly…and that she should notify me at
once should her circumstances become any more…distressed."
"Aye, my lord." The much-chagrinned footman departed.
Truly flummoxed, Ludovic glowered after the departing servant. Salime had never been
in want since coming to London. For five years she had reigned supreme. He wondered what
could be behind her request but then abandoned both letter and the dilemma the moment another
came bursting into his library. It was surely a day of surprises.
"Ned?" Ludovic leaped up to greet his best friend. "What the devil has brought you all
the way from Yorkshire to Kent?"
"I have most portentous news, DeVere," Ned sputtered with excitement. "News I could
hardly relay by messenger. Thus, I came down myself."
"What kind of news? Out with it, Chambers," Ludovic commanded.
"Mayhap you should pour us a drink first."
Ludovic lifted a sardonic brow. "A drink? Not so urgent after all?"
"'Tis fortification you'll need for the shock you are about to receive."
"Shock? Me? You know I am not easily shocked, Ned." Ludovic paused with his hand on
the brandy decanter and a slight frown marring his face. "Come to think of it, I'm damned if I can
recall a single occasion that has wrought from me such a profound reaction as shock."
Ned flung himself into Ludovic's favorite chair. "There's a first for everything, DeVere.
Now that drink?"
Ludovic sloshed amber liquid into two glasses, handing one to the would-be herald, who
downed it in one draught. Ludovic quirked a brow.
"It was a devilish long ride," Ned explained.
"All to deliver this shocking report of yours?" Ludovic perched a hip on the corner of his
mahogany desk.
"Yes! It's Lazarus all over again!"
"Lazarus, you say? Am I to surmise that someone has been miraculously raised from the
dead?"
"Actually, he might as well have been," Ned declared. "I can hardly countenance it after
all this time."
"You are trying my patience, Ned."
"It's Simon returned."
The Devil DeVere Series
A Wild Night's Bride (#1- Ned and Phoebe's story)
The Virgin Huntress (#2- Hew and Vesta's Story)
The Devil You Know (#3- DeVere and Diana Part I)
The Devil's Match (#4 DeVere and Diana Part II)
A Devil's Touch (#4.5) DeVere and Diana vignette)
Jewel of the East (Simon and Salime's story-coming soon)
Prequel Vignettes
Devil in the Making (DeVere's story)
The Trouble with Sin (Simon's story)
Ned's Folly (Ned's story- coming summer 2014)
Excerpt: A Wild Night's Bride (#1)
St. James, Westminster – 1783
"Ned, you must wake up." The frantic whisper and tickle of silky hair pleasantly
penetrated the periphery of Sir Edward Chambers' drink-induced, sexually sated and fogenshrouded consciousness. "Come Neddie," the soft voice implored. "You must wake or,
there will be the devil to pay."
He groaned, rolling onto his side to the simultaneous awareness of a pounding
head and the soft, warm presence beside him. He groped blindly, defining a shapely
feminine backside that tauntingly wriggled against his groin, stirring quite another part of
him to a wakeful and throbbing state. With a moan, he nuzzled her neck while his
burgeoning erection sought the warmth betwixt her thighs. "Annalee, my sweet Annalee,"
he murmured into her hair.
The warm, welcoming body became cold stone. "Phoebe," the voice intoned.
Ned's bleary eyes popped open, his attention immediately riveted to the massive
bed, the heavy velvet curtains of rich crimson and gold, and the towering hand-carved
posts of mahogany. He jerked upright as if doused with ice water, his gaze settling on the
voluptuous blue-eyed blonde lying amidst the tangle of luxurious linens. "Kitty?"
"No. Phoebe," she answered. "My name. It's Pheo-be."
"Phoebe?" He frowned in puzzlement. His vision darted from his thoroughly
tumbled bedfellow to the opulent room. He frantically scrubbed his face and looked
wildly about the room, eager to light upon something, anything, to assure himself he
wasn't going mad. The vision of his surroundings sent him scrambling to his knees,
entangling him in the bed sheets, and tumbling him to the floor. Lying stunned on the
thick Turkish carpet, his confused conscience absorbed the soaring twenty-foot shadowboxed ceiling depicting classical heroes.
"Kitty, Phoebe, or whoever-the-devil-you-are," he hissed through his teeth, "This
isn't Carleton House, is it?"
"No," she answered.
His heart beating apace, Ned willed himself first to breathe and then to modulate a
tone verging on panic. "I was with DeVere last night. Where is DeVere?"
"DeVere is locked safely in the linen closet." She hugged her breasts, her
expression suddenly wary. "Don't you remember anything?"
He vigorously shook his pounding head only to bring forth a chaotic kaleidoscope
of last night's events, and the impossible truth persisted to push its way to the surface.
His eyes glued to the bed, Ned made a mechanical backward retreat to the center
of the room where he had a clearer prospect of its crowning glory. His vision rose to the
top of the headboard, to the heraldic shield seated betwixt the carved figures of a lion and
a unicorn. His gaze slid with dread to the engraved scroll beneath. ‘Dieu Et Mon Driot,'
God and my right, the motto of the king. His chest seized. The room began to spin. He
looked to Phoebe, aware that the blood was draining from his face, and that his voice
emerged as a strangled sound. "May the same God save me…for I'm going to be hung,
drawn, and quartered for spending last night rutting in the King of England's bed!"
Excerpt: The Virgin Huntress (#2)
London's Hyde Park- 1783
While Vesta tried her best to keep her mare in step with Hew and Diana, she had to keep
circling her horse that jigged and frothed with nervous energy. Laughing and chatting about
some race Hew once rode with Diana's horse, they seemed to hardly take any heed of Vesta at
all. How dare Aunt Di monopolize him like this!
"Are you aright wi' the mare, miss?" Pratt asked her with solicitude not forthcoming from
any other quarter.
"I am fine, Mr. Pratt. It's just that she has been deprived of her normal gallop since
leaving Yorkshire over a sennight ago. She is accustomed to frequent and vigorous exercise and
can be a handful when denied."
Although she could handle her mare just fine, she wondered how they all would feel if
some horrible accident befell her. Vesta continued to fume. They would both be sorry then!
That was it! Vesta couldn't believe the answer was right before her eyes. It only wanted
the proper timing and a distraction for Pratt. Determined to put her plan into action, Vesta held
back, letting the others ride further ahead. When Pratt's head was turned, she saw her chance.
Whispering a prayer of supplication to her Mama, her ever-diligent guardian angel, Vesta
plucked out her hat pin and tossed the riding cap to the ground. "Oh dear, Mr. Pratt," she
exclaimed. "I've lost my favorite hat!"
"Ne'er fret, my lady," the elder jockey said, dropping to the ground with surprising
agility. In that precious desperate moment when his back was turned, Vesta dropped her reins
and spurred her mare. Artemis, who never needed strong incentive to begin with, took off down
Rotten Row like a bolt of dappled grey lightning. Vesta hung over her mare's neck clutching the
mane as if fearing for her very life but all the while whispering sweet endearments to her most
cooperative conspirator. She knew it would be a mistake to look back. Instead, she urged and
cooed and waited for the sound of thunder, for her knight in that lovely crimson crested helmet to
come to her rescue and prayed fervently that her savior would not be the grizzled little Pratt.
When she saw Captain Hew's big bay stallion gaining on the right, Vesta once more
thanked her watchful Mama. Knowing he would try to grab the bridle to bring her horse to a halt,
Vesta nudged the mare, urging more speed, with the cue of her left heel concealed by her
voluminous and billowing petticoats. Her hair had fallen in a wind- whipped tangle about her
face and neck; she felt the flush in her cheeks and her blood roaring with excitement. It was the
most gloriously wild ride she'd ever had, and it was all she could do not to laugh aloud!
"Can you reach the reins," Captain Hew cried, coming upon her.
"No. I'm afraid!" Vesta whimpered.
They approached the entrance to Kensington Gardens with its myriad hedgerows. "Hell
and the devil!" he exclaimed, surging forth, but still unable to claim the bridle. "Trust me Vesta,"
he demanded. "Let go of the horse!"
Trust him? He was a god among mortals. She would trust him if he said she could fly!
And that's exactly what she felt when he swept her off her horse and onto his own.
Throwing her arms about him, Vesta burrowed into his neck and simply breathed in the heavenly
essence of Captain Hewett DeVere.
Excerpt: The Devil You Know (#3)
( Part one of Diana and DeVere's story that continues in The Devil's Match)
He was sprawled on his back, arms outstretched in the confident repose of a king or some
other invincible being. A sheet draped up over a thigh and half his torso left the other half of him
bare to her ravenous gaze. She devoured the vision of lean and sculpted muscled that closely
resembled a god manifested in all his masculine splendor.
"'Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best, Not to dream all my dream, let's act
the rest.' You are called forth from my dream," he whispered. "I knew you would come."
She stepped back with a gasp."But how could you know that?"
"Because this is ineludible, you and I. You can't escape it." He reached out a hand, his
voice husky with desire. "Come to me now, my magnificent Huntress."
The words were an irresistible magnetic lure that drew her to him. She licked her lips,
the wicked promise of unknown delights filling her with a sharp-edge hunger. Untying the sash
at her waist, the silk wrapper slithered from her shoulders to pool softly at her feet.
His pupils flared beneath his sleep-heavy lids as she stood before him, unabashed in her
nakedness. She let him look his fill, his lazy inspection sending mixed anticipation and
trepidation washing over her in tiny waves. He peeled back the sheet and sat up, her gaze
riveting at once to the blatant proof of his arousal.
He drew her into his arms and the game began, a hungry breath- stealing match of
capture and release that heated her blood and sent blazing jolts to her belly. Their mouths
meeting and melding, his tongue darting over her lips, his teeth grazing them lightly, pulling on
the lower, urging her to open. Their tongues met in a simulated lovers' dance that became an
explosion of sublime sensation, sending a hot pool of moisture between her thighs.
He cupped her breast, teasing her nipple with his thumb. His mouth broke away from
hers to ply hot open kisses to her throat that left her gasping. Of their own volition, her hands
engaged in a tactile exploration of his body, reveling in the erotic abrasiveness of his coarse hair
against her own smooth skin. She roamed his hard chest, the rigid plain of his stomach, the
powerful thigh muscles that now encased her hips, pulling her closer, tighter, and anchoring her
against him until she could feel the hot pulse of his jutting manhood against her most private
place.
He took her hand in his, guiding her to his rigid staff and enclosing her fingers about it.
It was thick and hard and hot and pulsing. "I make no secret of how much I want you," he said
low and hoarse. "Tell me you do too, Diana. Say you want to take me into your body."
"But I'm here," she whispered. "Is that not proof enough?"
"No." He released her hand but his probing gaze kept her captive. Though I would
worship you with my body, only you are in control of your pleasure. You must tell me you want
this."
She licked her lips, her breathing coming in ragged puffs. "You have only to say yes,
Diana, and I will lay paradise at your feet."
At last a raspy reply sounded from her throat. "Yes." He caught the whispered exhalation
with his mouth. His hands slid down her back to palm and squeeze her buttocks. He lowered his
head to her breast, kissing, gently biting, his tongue rasping her nipple, sending racking rivulet
of pleasure to her womb. Her arousal escalating to a blinding need to feel the hot hard length of
him in her passage, she writhed and ground against him with a fierce cry.
Diana awoke with a sob, her body fevered, her sheets discarded, and her nightrail tangled
about her waist. She lay in this heightened state of arousal, panting, disoriented, and aching to
her very core, until at last she sought her own release.
Excerpt: The Devil's Match (#4)
(Part II of Diana and DeVere's story that begins in The Devil You Know)
DeVere House, Bloomsbury- 1783
"What the devil is it, Winchester?" Viscount DeVere snapped at the appearance of his
majordomo. "I thought I clearly communicated that we were not to be disturbed."
The flushing servant diverted his gaze to the ceiling in an obvious effort to ignore the
ongoing orgy. "But there is a lady to see you, my lord. She is most insistent."
"Another one?" Lord Malden chortled. "By all means, have him send the baggage in.
Damn me, DeVere, but you are well-supplied."
"I am, indeed," DeVere answered. "It is a most amicable arrangement with Madam
Hayes, but I had not requested another." DeVere gave another long, lazy pull on the stem of the
hookah proffered by his scantily-clad companion, and cast a sadly indifferent gaze at the
temptress who enthusiastically sucked his cock.
The servant flushed. "You misapprehend, my lord. This lady—"
"Will not be turned away." Diana stepped boldly into the room and Ludovic felt his pulse
jump at his first glimpse of her in over four years.
Although a black veil obscured her face, Ludovic could have identified her proud
carriage and sultry voice amongst a hundred similar women. He was careful to maintain his air
of careless indifference, commanding the woman kneeling between his legs, "Put your
playthings away, my pet for we have an unexpected guest."
"So this is what you have reduced your life to, my lord?" Diana asked with icy hauteur.
He gave her a taunting smile. "It is fortunate that I don't give a damn for your opinion,
madam." In defiance, he caressed the bare breast of his would-be odalisque and took another pull
on the hookah, blowing purple-cast smoke rings into the air. "Now, to what do I owe the
privilege of your queenly condescension?" He could almost see her hackles rise, a reaction that
gave him a peculiar twinge of pleasure.
"How dare you ignore my messages and compel me to come to this…this…den of
iniquity!"
He couldn't suppress his chuckle. "It was your choice to invade my domain. Thus, it is
not for me to concern myself with your injured sensibilities. I already conveyed to you that the
girl is safe. There was nothing further to be said." He gave her a bland lift of his brow, inwardly
enjoying the hell out of her reaction.
"Nothing further! Where is she?" Diana demanded. "She was last in your charge and has
not returned! I found her maid locked in her room! If anything has happened to her—"
"I assure you she is perfectly safe in my brother's keeping."
"Hew is involved in this? I don't believe it. He would never—"
DeVere's mouth kicked up in the corner. "Perhaps I misspoke. It would be vastly more
correct to say he is in hers." The girl was a tiny virago. He almost felt pity for his brother.
Diana looked befuddled. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"When Vesta revealed to me that she was determined to have Hew, I agreed to lend some
small assistance in the matter."
"That's ludicrous! Vesta hasn't even had her come-out. It is far too soon for her to be
thinking of anyone!"
"Nevertheless." He shrugged.
"Is that all you have to say?"
"For the nonce. Conversation is not my chief pursuit at the moment, but should you be
inclined to join me…" He surveyed her with a slow and deliberate appraisal, a look meant both
to insult and to incite. He was pleased to note the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, proof that his
power to inspire her lust had not waned in the least.
"You revile me!" Diana spat. "I will expect your call with a full explanation at nine
o'clock on the morrow."
"An ungodly hour," he replied. "I doubt I shall have risen before two."
Diana spun toward the door. "You will call, my lord, or you will much regret my methods
of rousing you."
She had meant it as a threat, but Ludovic could picture her face behind the veil, the high
color staining her cheeks, the passion borne of righteous indignation blazing in her green eyes,
the very things that had most appealed to him four years ago, aside from her magnificent breasts,
that is. "I doubt that, my dear," he replied. "You may rouse me any way you like."
The room rumbled with snickers and guffaws.
Though he'd only meant to goad her, he felt himself growing rock hard at the vision of
her once again in his bed. He had determined upon their first meeting that he would have her one
way or another. She had been a challenge, but in the end he had, indeed, had her. Several ways in
fact, but still not enough to satisfy him. She was the only lover with whom he hadn't grown
bored. He told himself it was only the brevity of their liaison; it simply hadn't had sufficient time
to grow tedious. The realization had sprung from nowhere, but there it was, just as she, staring
him in the face.
"A tolerable, handsome figure," Lord Malden remarked to her departing back, "but a
tongue like a shrew." He added sotto voce, "Perhaps you can teach her a better means of
employing it, eh DeVere?"
Oh, he had done that and more. He had taught her many things and she had proven both
eager and wonderfully sensuous, but her education remained incomplete. Unless…He wondered
with a stab of something-he-didn't-care-to- identify, if Diana had taken other lovers in his
absence. Would it really matter if she had? He paused to examine that question and found it
didn't diminish his desire for her in the least. His brother was now out of the picture, not that he
would have allowed that courtship to have progressed any further.
At the door she abruptly turned to confront her detractors, her bitterness a living,
breathing force. He could almost see her livid gaze penetrating through the veil. "Better a shrew
than a sheep, my lord. For hapless sheep are devoured by ruthless wolves."
He chuckled as the door clicked behind her. So that was the way of it. He had introduced
her to passion and left her to her own devices, and for that she resented him. For there was no
doubt in his mind that this sheep desired nothing more than to be devoured slowly and
deliberately by a wolf's mouth, and he would be only too happy to oblige her.
Excerpt: A Devil's Touch (4.5)
A DEVIL'S TOUCH is an shorter story that can stand alone, but also serves to bridge
Book #4 THE DEVIL'S MATCH and Book#5 JEWEL OF THE EAST (Salime and
Simon's story)
In her last month of pregnancy, Diana, Viscountess DeVere, has barely settled into her new life
and role as "the devil" DeVere's wife, when her increasingly restless husband receives an urgent
summons to London. When Diana inadvertently discovers a message he received from a known
courtesan with whom he was formerly linked, she fears her marriage is over before it has begun.
Medford Abbey, Kent- 1784
Diana paused her perusal of the bookshelves to rub the small of her back with a selfpitying sigh. Perhaps she was making too much of matters and all would return to normal after
her lying in? Hoping to lose herself for a day or two until his return, Diana selected the latest
novel penned by Fannie Burney, the adventures of a young heiress named Cecelia. She retrieved
the book from the shelf but by now her feet and back ached so badly, she dreaded the thought of
climbing the stairs to her private apartments. Instead, her gaze settled on her husband's highly
comfortable and recently vacated chair. Alighting in the plush over-stuffed chair, Diana released
a soft moan of contentment. Ensconced in the faint scents of leather and Ludovic, a renewed
calm seemed to settle over her.
Giving in to the most unladlylike urge to prop her feet on the desk, Diana took up a stack
of papers to clear a spot, but a particular sheet of foolscap conspicuously penned in a most
delicate and elaborate style of calligraphy caught her eye. It was definitely not a man's hand.
Curious, she picked up the letter. The wax seal had already been broken, revealing a terse note of
only a few lines. She hesitated with a pang of guilt, knowing she should not proceed further, but
her currently state of anxiety overcame her initial qualms. Diana read:
Most honored Efendi,
It is with the greatest humility that I appeal to he who once safeguarded my life. It is with
exceeding distress that I must entreat you once more being much in need of a friend and
protector.
Your most devoted and obedient servant,
Salime
Diana clutched the missive to her breast with quivering lips. An old friend indeed! Was it
truly a man named Simon he went so urgently to meet… or an erstwhile lover named Salime?
Other Historical Romances by Victoria Vane
The Sheik Retold
by Victoria Vane & E.M. Hull
THE DESERT WAS NEVER HOTTER!
A haughty young heiress for whom the world is a playground… A savage son of the Sahara
who knows no law but his own…When pride and passion vie for supremacy, blistering
desert days are nothing compared to sizzling Sahara nights…
"There will be inquiries." I choked out. "I am not such a nonentity that nothing
will be done when I am missed. You will pay dearly for what you have done."
"Pay?" His amused look sent a cold feeling of dread through me. "I have already
paid… in gold that matches your hair, my gazelle. Besides," he continued, "the French
have no jurisdiction over me. There is no law here above my own."
My trepidation was growing by the minute. "Why have you done this? Why have
you brought me here?"
"Why?" He repeated with a slow and heated appraisal that made me acutely,
almost painfully, conscious of my sex. "Bon Dieu! Are you not woman enough to know?"
Pride and passion vie for supremacy in this steamy retelling of E.M. Hull's romance classic.
Treacherous Temptations
A reluctant heiress resigned to her fate… Mary Elizabeth Edwardes has one of the largest
fortune's in England, but has no desire to leave her quiet country existence… and even less to
acquire a husband she cannot choose for herself.
A dissolute nobleman bent on retribution… Trapped in a duplicitous existence since scandal
destroyed his fortune and family name, Lord Hadley Blanchard has spent the better part of a
decade posing as a disaffected exile while spying and seducing in the service of the English
Crown.
A dangerous game of seduction, and intrigue… When summoned from abroad by a former
lover, Lord Hadley perceives an opportunity for vengeance at last. By employing the full
measure of his seductive charm, he woos the ward of the man who destroyed his life, little
knowing that winning Mary's fortune will mean risking his own treacherous heart.
A Breach of Promise
When charm and persuasion fail...Only seduction remains...
On the night of her betrothal, Lydia Trent receives just a taste of what ecstasy will be at the
hands of her fiancé...and then he leaves her wanting. After waiting six years, and tired of being
neglected by her exceedingly reluctant husband-to-be, Lydia decides to break it off.
When Marcus, Lord Russell, receives Lydia's letter requesting a release from their contract, he is
stunned by her audacity. Confident he'll have her eating out of his hand with his usual wit and
charm, he's determined to repair the damage. However, the headstrong woman she's blossomed
into is equally determined to thwart his every effort to win her back.
Marcus discovers, in spite of her conviction to end the union, Lydia is more responsive to his
touch than he ever imagined. He just needs to get her alone to unleash the promised passion he
sees within his wanton virgin. Marcus will use any tool in his arsenal to exploit her weakness-his kisses, his hands, his mouth...her own body. In short, he'll just have to ruin her!
Victoria's Titillating Tidbits
I am often asked where I find the inspiration for my characters. And while occasionally I
model them after a particular person, most often they form as an amalgamation of several
different people, as was the case with Simon Singleton. I knew Simon had to share some traits
with his best friend DeVere, but I also wanted him to be a man apart and not under DeVere's
shadow. The two historical figures that merged in my mind were the Irish poet Samuel Derrick,
later the Master of Ceremonies at Bath, and another would-be poet, soldier, and renown
Regency-era rake, Colonel George Hangar, 4th Baron Coleraine.
Derrick (once described by James Boswell as "a little blackguard pimping dog") was
reputedly the true mastermind behind Harris's famous Directory of Covent Garden Ladies.
Although the Ode to the Milkmaid of St. James is my own effort at lewd verse, most of the
poetry quoted by Simon in the story may be attributed to Samuel Derrick.
It was also in reading about Hangar's colorful life that Freddie came into being, as one of
Hangar's youthful misadventures was to elope and wed a gypsy girl who later ran off with a
tinker! (Hangar never remarried!)
The Magdalen Charity was also a very real organization. First established in 1758 in
Whitechapel "for the reception of penitent prostitutes", it's stated mission was: "to provide for
women and girls on the streets a safe, desirable, and happy retreat from their wretched and
distressful circumstances." The first Magdalen Charity House opened in a former hospital with
fifty beds and accepted six penitents the first day. By 1760, it boasted 131 female residents. In
1765 Queen Charlotte became a patroness, and the charity expanded to larger quarters. By 1769
over 1,500 women had passed through its doors, with most staying a period of three years.
Works Cited
Compston, Herbert Fuller Bright. The Magdalen Hospital; the Story of a Great Charity,. London:
Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1917. Print.
Cruickshank, Dan, and Dan Cruickshank. London's Sinful Secret: The Bawdy History and Very Public
Passions of London's Georgian Age. New York: St. Martin's, 2010. Print.
Nocturnal Revels: Or, The History of King's-Place, and Other Modern Nunneries. Containing Their
Mysteries, Devotions, and Sacrifices. Comprising, Also, the Ancient and Present State of
Promiscuous Gallantry: With the Portraits of the Most Celebrated Demireps and Courtezans of
This Period: As Well as Sketches of Their Professional and Occasional Admirers. London:
Printed for M. Goadby, 1779. Print.
Rubenhold, Hallie. The Covent Garden Ladies: Pimp General Jack & the Extraordinary Story of
Harris's List. Stroud: Tempus, 2005. Print.
About Victoria Vane
Victoria Vane is an award-winning romance novelist and history junkie whose collective works of
fiction range from wildly comedic romps to emotionally compelling and intensely erotic romance.
Victoria also writes historical fiction as Emery Lee and is the founder of Goodreads Romantic Historical
Fiction Lovers and the Romantic Historical Lovers book review blog. Look for Victoria's sexy new
contemporary cowboy series coming in summer 2014.
Email: [email protected]
Web: http://www.victoriavane.com
The Devil DeVere Fan Site: http://thedevildevere.com
Blog: http://victoriavane.wordpress.com
Twitter: @authorvictoriav
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